Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
The jungle only seemed to have two types of weather—cold and rainy or hot and muggy. Today fell into the latter category. Ahmya had appreciated the warm sunshine this morning while they lounged beside the river, but as the day had worn on, the heat had steadily grown unbearable.
She gathered her hair off her neck and pressed it to the back of her head. The air was a balm upon her sweaty skin.
“Leaking again?” Rekosh asked, calling her attention to him. He strode beside her, matching her leisurely pace, with the sharpened stick serving as his spear tucked along his upper right arm.
Ahmya chuckled as she slipped between two trees, using the point of her own spear to check the vegetation in front of her for any lurking beasties—or hidden carnivorous plants. “Be happy that you vrix don’t have to worry about sweating.”
“I am. The jungle is already wet. I do not know why humans must make themselves more wet.”
“We don’t exactly have a choice. Sweating is just a natural thing that occurs to help regulate our body temperature. It’s how we cool off in the heat. ”
“We will stop soon, Ahmya. Then you may leak in the shade.”
Ahmya laughed. Despite the humidity, it felt good to be out here, felt good to be seeing the Tangle. It felt good to have Rekosh with her. It would’ve been nice to have reached this point without almost dying several times along the way, but now that they were out here, she was determined to enjoy herself.
And she was. There was no need to rush—no vengeful queens chasing them, no disasters forcing them onward at a breakneck pace. It was just her and Rekosh surrounded by nature in all its beauty.
Their journey had been filled with conversation, though unsurprisingly, he had done most of the talking. And Ahmya had been content to listen. She was eager to learn more about him.
He’d told her about his trip to Takarahl with Urkot and Telok, about how different it was with Ahnset as queen. How peaceful. The vrix who called the city home were no longer hungry because their hunters provided for all rather than being forced to deliver their kills to Zurvashi. The city was flourishing, with broodlings playing in the tunnels and vrix no longer hiding in fear.
Rekosh had also mentioned that Urkot had helped sculpt statues in honor of Ivy and Ella in Takarahl’s heart, a chamber called the Den of Spirits.
The thought of those statues brought a smile to Ahmya’s face, but it was tinged with sadness.
The cards fate had dealt to Ella had been unfair, and so very cruel. She’d suffered from the moment she’d awoken from cryosleep due to stasis sickness, and her health had deteriorated every day. It’d only been a matter of time before she would’ve succumbed to her condition. But she’d still lived each day to the fullest, looking upon this alien world with wonder sparkling in her eyes.
As Ahmya and Rekosh had trekked onward through the jungle, he’d answered her questions about the plants, animals, birds, and insects they passed, and even shared vrix myths about some of them. He also went out of his way to point out flowers she might’ve missed amidst the vegetation. Over the hours they’d been walking, his English had noticeably improved, and she’d picked up more vrix thanks to him so often using his native language and translating it for her afterward.
But for as much as Rekosh spoke, he never said anything about his father, mother, or siblings. He never told other stories from when he was a broodling, or how he and the other vrix in their tribe used to spend their time. Rekosh had offered no details about his past, which was odd for him, as he delighted in storytelling.
She wanted to know those things about him. Wanted to know everything, really. But based on the little he’d told her yesterday, his childhood had not been a happy one. Perhaps he just didn’t want to dredge up old, painful memories.
Her heart squeezed at the thought of him being hurt as a child.
Dropping her hair, Ahmya stepped onto a narrow rock formation that ran up the side of a small hill, spreading her arms to the sides to keep her balance with her spear help upright. The stone was worn, cracked, and crumbling, and was being swallowed by dirt and plant growth on one side, but the long, relatively flat tiers seemed decidedly like stairs.
The area the rock steps led up to was fairly level, and though it was shaded by the boughs of towering trees, it felt like a clearing—or rather like it had been a clearing long ago. Like…a glade carved out of the jungle.
Thick roots had pushed up chunks of stone from the ground, and more rock lay scattered about, much of it overgrown with plants. At the center of it all was a small pool, fed by a spring bubbling from some of those rocks.
Long-stemmed flowers that looked like a cross between peonies and roses grew along the edge of the steps and around the pool. The leafy stems were tall, some of them taller than Ahmya, and were topped with large, lush white and pink blossoms. The air was fragrant with their sweet perfume.
Ahmya stopped, brushing her fingers over the petals of the nearest blossom. They were velvety soft. “What are these?”
“They are called syth’keishahl .”
“Silkblossom?”
Rekosh trilled. “Yes. It is said they came to be when the Weaver gifted the Rootsinger some of his finest silk. She knew it would not last forever, and that made her hearts heavy with sadness. She wanted to share such beauty with all vrix. So, she planted his silk in the ground, and from it grew these flowers. Now everyone may enjoy the beauty of that silk as she enjoyed it long, long ago.”
“That’s a lovely story.” Ahmya leaned forward and inhaled, drawing in the flower’s scent. She hummed appreciatively and continued on. Rekosh kept pace with her as they ascended the steps.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “Rekosh, can I ask you something?”
“Always.”
Ahmya stopped on the highest tier and faced him. “Would you tell me more about your childhood? About when you were a broodling?”
Rekosh halted, and his lower hands grasped his sash, adjusting its lay across his chest. His mandibles twitched. “When I was a broodling…”
“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she rushed to say, waving her palms. “I…I don’t want to pry. I know yo u were hurt, that other vrix bullied you. So if you don’t want to tell me anything else, that’s okay.
“I just…” She drew her spear against her chest and clutched it. “I want to know about you. All of you.”
His gaze lingered on her briefly before he turned it away, raking it across their surroundings. Afternoon sunlight streamed in through breaks in the canopy, including a rather large one over the rock Ahmya stood upon, making the flowers especially vibrant.
With the spring’s gentle trickling combining with the other jungle sounds, this spot was almost serene.
Of course, that didn’t mean it was less dangerous than anywhere else.
Rekosh returned his attention to Ahmya, shifted closer, and took her spear from her grasp before plucking her up off her perch. With one arm under her legs and another at her back, he cradled her to his chest.
“What are you doing?” she asked as she looped her arm over his shoulder and placed a hand on his warm chest.
“I will speak,” he said, climbing the rock to reach the area at its crest. “But these are not striding words.”
“Not striding words?”
“We must sit. The story is…heavy.”
She felt some of that weight in that moment; it was apparent both in his voice and in the way he moved, which seemed a little slower, a little more deliberate and measured, than his usual effortless grace.
He walked past the pool and its crystal clear, shimmering water, and brought her to a shady spot nearby. A few taller stone outcroppings, covered in vines and moss, stood there like lopsided pillars flanking a low wall of fallen rocks and boulders. Some of the ground within the natural alcove created by the formation was covered in fine grass and tufts of moss.
Propping the spears against the tall stone, Rekosh slipped off his bag and set it atop the moss before lowering himself beside it. His folded forelegs created a makeshift seat in front of him, and he placed Ahmya atop them with her back against his chest once he’d settled.
Reaching aside, he opened his bag and took out his waterskin, which he handed to her. “Drink, vi’keishi .”
“Thank you.” Ahmya smiled and uncorked it, taking a long draft of the cool water. He drank too before returning it to his bag.
When she began to shift to face him, Rekosh settled his upper hands on her shoulders, keeping her in place.
Ahmya’s brow creased. “Rekosh?”
He slid one of his palms from her shoulder up her neck, where he cupped her throat and gently tipped her head back. His red eyes were solemn as he peered down at her.
Ahmya searched his gaze. “You don’t have to tell me anything.”
“I want to.” He trailed his other hand over her cheek, brushing her skin with the backs of his claws.
A shiver ran through Ahmya at his touch, at his voice, at that gaze so intent upon her. “I will listen.”
Rekosh withdrew his hand from her neck and slipped his fingers into her hair. The tips of his claws grazed her scalp as he combed through the strands, but he was so delicate, so reverent, that all she felt was the tingling left in their wake. He simply brushed her hair, remaining quiet for long enough that Ahmya had a feeling it was his way of soothing himself.
Keeping her head tilted back, she closed her eyes and folded her hands in her lap, giving him all the time he needed.
“As I said, I was smallest of my brood,” he began, voice low. “My father was a weaver, my mother a Fang. I could not go with her, so I followed him to hide from others. To be safe. He taught me to weave. Taught me many things. Maybe he did not know why I followed him, but it brought him joy. Joy in sharing needle, thread, and loom, joy in teaching and seeing me learn.
“Because I was a small broodling amongst big vrix, I kept my words to myself and listened, and I learned many things. A warrior’s fangs and claws have strength, but words have strength also. Knowing is strength. And because I was small, they spoke as though I was not there.” His fingers continued their work, parting her hair into sections that he held firm without ever pulling.
“Whispers, vrix say. That is what I learned.” Rekosh chittered. “But most are not whispered.”
“Our word is gossip,” Ahmya said with a smirk.
“Gossip, yes. I sat near my father, and I wove, and I listened. Soon, I learned words could sometimes make me safe. Knowing could be used as a shield and a spear. Knowing the words a vrix wanted to hear was strength. But all I wanted was to be the greatest weaver in Takarahl so my father would see me with all eight eyes, so he would have pride.”
A sharp pang struck Ahmya’s chest, and her eyes prickled with the threat of tears. She opened them. Drawing in a slow, deep breath, she willed those tears away and settled a hand upon Rekosh’s leg. It was harder, more solid, than the rest of him, but its hairs were soft against her palm, and they rose slightly at her touch.
“I understand how that feels,” she said. “I wanted the same with my father. He…did not see me no matter how much I sought his approval, no matter how hard I tried.”
His chest rumbled with an unhappy hum. “I am sorry, vi’keishi . But know that I have seen you always.”
Her lower lip quivered, and she couldn’t stop the tears from filling her eyes despite her efforts. “I know.”
He leaned down and rubbed his hard mouth against her temple. His warm breath flowed over her skin. “No tears, Ahmya. No more rain. ”
Ahmya released a small laugh. “I’m sorry. I don’t usually cry so easily… At least I didn’t before waking up in this world.”
“I know it is hard. It will get better in time.”
She turned her face toward him. Her lips were so close to his mouth, so close to brushing over it, to kissing him. “It has been better with you.”
Trilling softly, he lifted his head and set his hands back into motion. “It is better for me too.”
“Please continue.” She gave his leg a gentle squeeze. “I want to know more.”
Again he was quiet, and she could almost feel him gathering his thoughts even as he plaited her hair. He spoke after a deep, slow breath. “I said my mother was a Fang. She served Queen Azunai, who was queen before Zurvashi. She was…big.” He chittered softly. “But gentle. Strong but kind. I see her in Ahnset. I did not like when my mother came to our den with hurts, and I always tried to help her. My hurts… They were so small, and hers were so big.
“I tried to hide them from her. But she saw. She knew. Always, she would help, and always so gently. She did not make me feel small, did not make me feel weak. She made me feel…safe. Made me feel worthy.
“I had only seen five years when my mother died in battle against the fireeyes. She was carried back to Takarahl, and I watched my father sew her shroud. I tried to help, wanted to, but he would not let me.
“I did not know why. We two were weavers, and it was the thread that bound us. I was sad. I knew he was sad also, but he was…changed. He strode with a cloud around him, a darkness. I told him stories as we wove, some I had heard from others, some I had made in my mind, hoping to make him chitter. I took better care in weaving so his hearts would smile. But he did not see. He could not.
“My broodbrothers and broodsisters became more kind in our sadness. We did not have our mother, and our father strode in darkness for a long time. His body was near, but his spirit was far. None of my brood siblings had any want to learn weaving. My sisters wanted to be like our mother, to be Fangs. The only time we saw my sire’s fire again was when they told him that. He shouted and growled and told them no, never, they would not follow our mother.”
“Oh, Rekosh.” Ahmya felt the pain in his words because it was the same as her own—pain that had been buried deep down, that she hadn’t been allowed to express. “My mother died when I was eight. I was young, like you. And I felt so very alone. My brother Hirohito is...”
Her heart squeezed as she remembered the passage of time. Hirohito was no longer alive. He’d died on Earth, long ago, while she’d slept aboard the Somnium .
“My brother was nine years older than me, so we were never close,” she continued. “He was protective and kind, but I was just his baby sister. And when our mother died, our father also changed. He was sad, but also harder too.”
Ahmya ran her palm up and down the upper segment of his leg. “Your father was hurting. Grief changes us, and it can blind us to the fact that other people are hurting too.”
“I know that now,” Rekosh said softly. “But as broodlings, we did not. It was his duty to see. His duty to protect and teach.”
The unspoken words hung in the air, as clear as anything Rekosh had said.
His father had failed.
And she couldn’t help but wonder if her father had failed her also. She felt horrible even considering it. No one was perfect, and her father had done his best, hadn’t he?
Yet she couldn’t help but feel like Yutaka Hayashi had failed his duty to his children when they’d needed him most.
Rekosh’s arm shifted behind Ahmya, and she heard his fingers tap the hard plate of his chest. “My sisters held their wants close and quiet. They would talk to me in whispers, when the den was dark and our father slept, and tell me of their dreams. They wanted to honor our mother by doing as she had done. By serving the queen and protecting Takarahl.
“My brothers spoke of helping them. Of journeying into the Tangle together to face the enemies of Takarahl, of finding the vrix that killed our mother and slaying them. I did not have the same wants, but I made stories for them. Stories about them—about their journeys as warriors. Loshei’s brood, fighting for Takarahl, bringing honor to their mother.
“My stories brought them joy, and their joy was mine. Our sadness faded. If we did not have our father, we had each other.
“But two years after our mother died, sickness came to Takarahl.”
Dread filled Ahmya. She remained silent, staring ahead, as she listened.
“It stalked Suncrest Tunnel”—Rekosh extended a hand before her, long fingers splayed, and snapped it into a fist—“and grabbed every vrix it could. Many got sick. It made a smell… I do not have words for it in your language. A smell that would not leave, that went deep into all it touched, that made my insides twist. The sickness came into me first. Then it went into my sisters and brothers.
“I remember the wails echoing along the tunnel. Vrix crying out their agony, some until they had no voice left… They wailed in pain because of their illness, while others wailed in grief as their families and friends died, and long after the sickness passed, I still heard whispers of those wails.
“I remember the hurt all over my body, in my bones, my head, my insides. I was too hot and too cold. My throat was small, almost too small for air, and my thoughts… They drifted away like dead leaves on the wind.
“There were blankets and the green fire of spinewood sap, and my father was there, always with us, offering water and soft words. But it is all in pieces that do not fit. I do not know how many days I was so. Only that when I shed the sickness, I was weaker than ever, and many, many vrix had died. My brothers and sisters…”
Whatever more he’d been about to say caught in his throat, creating a deep, broken sound. His fingers faltered in her hair, and Ahmya felt a shudder course through him. Tears blurred her vision.
“I was the weakest, the smallest. I should not have lived. But the sickness took them. All of them. My father sewed their shrouds, one by one, and I did not try to help. I could not find strength to lift even a needle and thread. When he made the last stitch, he made a vow to the Eight. Never would he weave again. Never would he stitch again. Never would he sew another shroud.”
Vrix could not weep, but they were no strangers to sorrow. Rekosh’s body trembled with it, his voice overflowed with it, and it swept freely into Ahmya’s heart, flooding her chest. All that pain, all that grief, all that distance… To have lost his mother, his brothers and sisters, and then the single profound connection he’d shared with his father must’ve been devastating. She couldn’t imagine how a child would’ve taken it.
She couldn’t bear not seeing him at that moment. Couldn’t bear being turned away. Bracing her hand on his leg, she twisted toward him. Her hair briefly went taut in his hold before he released it, and he leaned back slightly, looking at her with eyes brimming with grief.
Ahmya faced him fully on her knees and slipped her arms around his neck, drawing him into the tightest embrace she’d ever given to anyone. She wished she could have done the same for him all those years ago when he was a child.
What tension had been in his hard body melted away against her. All four of his arms banded around her, lifted her, and drew her even closer to him. Without thought, Ahmya wrapped her legs around his waist. Out of all the vrix she’d met, Rekosh was the most charismatic, the most outgoing. But he’d developed those traits to protect himself.
He buried his face in her hair, and his shuddering exhalation teased her scalp. “ Kir’ani vi’keishi …”
Closing her eyes, she rested her cheek on his chest and twined her fingers in his hair as she cradled his head. Ahmya had no words to soothe the pain, loss, and loneliness he had felt, so instead she let him feel her. Let him know through her embrace that he was not alone, that she was here with him, that she understood and empathized. That she cared about him.
She wasn’t sure how long they held each other that way. She knew only that it felt right, despite the circumstances, and that it hadn’t been nearly long enough when he finally lifted his head. But he drew back only slightly, ensuring that their arms remained in place.
Ahmya looked up at him, and Rekosh looked down at her.
He trilled softly and retracted one of his upper arms. The backs of his fingers swept over her cheek, spreading tingles across her skin. “I cursed fate for the pain and sadness it gave me. Then, even with every star in the night sky burning between us, our threads crossed. I might have been thankful, but fate has done all it can to keep us apart. I have always spun my own silk, my own words, and now I will also spin my own fate—to ensure it is forever woven with yours.”
Ahmya’s breath caught, and her eyes flicked between his. Those words had not been spoken lightly, hadn’t been meant as simple comfort. They were more. Much, much more. “Rekosh…”
“There is something I must give you, Ahmya.” His lower hands guided her legs down, and he set her on her feet in front of him before withdrawing. He retrieved his bag from the ground, opened it, and reached inside .
His hand emerged holding the leather wrapped bundle she’d seen when she set out his belongings to dry.
She recalled what he’d said the morning he’d come to her den with something in his hands.
Ahmya, I must share words with you.
Words from my heartsthread, kir’ani vi’keishi …
Her heart raced, and she pressed a palm against her chest.
Rekosh set his bag down and shifted his forelegs, kneeling on the right while stretching the other out. His eyes met and held hers. “You are my mate, Ahmya. I felt it in my hearts when I first saw you.” He passed the bundle to his upper hands, bowed his head, and held the offering out to her atop his upturned palms. “Be mine, my heartsthread, and take me as yours.”